


Wedding Bells

by spacestationtrustfund



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, M/M, [aggressively sings 'The Bells of Notre Dame']
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is there anything different about marriage now?” asks Steve one day over breakfast, when it’s just him and Natasha and Clint and Tony, eating omelettes that Jarvis has had prepared for them.</p><p>Tony spears a piece of omelette and chews it slowly. “Excellent as usual, Jarvis. Is this about Barnes? Because I feel like this is about Barnes. Just so you know, I give you my blessing, blah blah blah—”</p><p><em>“Tony,”<em></em></em> Natasha admonishes, giving him her patented evil assassin and/or spy glare, “don’t.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wedding Bells

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler(?): no one actually gets married.

“ _Do you take this person as your lawful wife or husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish until death do you part?”_

 

 

 

 

“Is there anything different about marriage now?” asks Steve one day over breakfast, when it’s just him and Natasha and Clint and Tony, eating omelettes that Jarvis has had prepared for them.

Tony spears a piece of omelette and chews it slowly. “Excellent as usual, Jarvis. Is this about Barnes? Because I feel like this is about Barnes. Just so you know, I give you my blessing, blah blah blah—”

“ _Tony,_ ” Natasha admonishes, giving him her patented evil assassin and/or spy glare, “don’t.”

Steve has gone as red as the red peppers in the omelettes. Tony wishes he had a way to take a picture of how he looks right now. “No—I don’t want to _marry_ Bucky, I—I mean—actually I—I—”

Natasha’s got that glare on again, and she’s shifted forwards in her seat, her protective instincts clearly kicking in, so Tony throws up his hands in defeat. “Fine. You want the sex talk? I can do the sex talk. Well, my padawan, pre-marital stuff is allowed now, for starters—thank God—”

“You don’t need to make a big deal out of it,” Clint says mildly, clearly misinterpreting the whole thing, “it isn’t a bad thing, not to get married.”

Tony shakes his head in disgust; they’re another argument entirely, Clint and Natasha are. “You two are practically married already. Why not just get hitched and make it official?”

“Because then she would have to eat me. You know, Black Widow and all,” Clint says, hiding his grin extremely badly. It’s a terrible joke; even Natasha rolls her eyes and sighs in regret.

Steve appears slightly alarmed. “You don’t mean . . .?”

“It’s a joke,” Tony snaps peevishly. “Marriage is different because these two are stubborn idiots who refuse to admit they’re even in a goddamned relationship when everyone knows they’ve been sleeping together for years.”

“Don’t make me cut out your tongue and shove it down your throat,” Natasha warns absently, which is enough to make Tony scoot his chair further away from her. “You’re starting to make me think you deserve it.”

Clint reaches across the table and actually grabs Natasha by the hand. “Now, sweetheart, don’t mutilate our kind host here, or he just might kick us out of his simply _wonderful_ house.” Tony wants to smack him.

“You,” Natasha says coldly, although she doesn’t pull her hand away, “are not helping in the least.”

“Damn right I will,” Tony says, belatedly. “But—pre-marital stuff is okay now.” _Thank God,_ he thinks again, _but how else would I exist?_

Steve frowns. “It was okay before too, you know. I’m from nineteen-forty, not eighteen-forty,” and, well, maybe Tony wants to smack him too.

“Right!” he says quickly, still a little miffed, “and, for the records, gay stuff is okay too.” It’s with no small satisfaction that Tony watches Steve, who’s been slowly returning to a normal colour, turn bright red once again. “So if you ever want—”

“ _Tony,_ ” Natasha hisses again, this time not so much the hint of a threat as the threat itself, “leave him alone.”

Tony spreads his hands helplessly, regretting that he ever decided to share his omelettes with any of them. “Hey, he asked,” he says defensively, because Steve _did,_ “calm down a little bit, okay.” He picks up his fork and bites into another piece of egg and cheese, savouring the rich spices. Tony takes his time chewing and swallowing before he looks back up at the rest of them. “Anything else?”

Natasha has her arms folded, and Clint is playing with his food like a kindergärtner. Steve shrugs without looking up. “Is there much that’s different about _how_ people get married these days?”

“Usually it’s in a church,” Tony says dryly, “with a big-ass cake and lots of alcohol, which is generally the only good part of the whole thing. I better be your best man,” he adds slyly, “whenever you get married . . . to whomever you decide to marry.”

“I think Sam would be my best man,” Steve admits. “Or Natasha.” (Tony rolls his eyes, because that’s exactly something Steve would say.) “Okay, maybe she can be my best woman, best—girl,” and Steve stops abruptly, looking down at the table. “Or maybe I’ll just stick with Sam,” Steve says in a quiet voice.

“I could throw a pretty good wedding in the Tower,” Tony muses, ignoring Steve, poking at the remainder of his breakfast. “I bet Jarvis could say vows and stuff for you and—hey, who are you marrying, anyway?”

Steve sets down his utensils and stands up quickly. “No one. Thanks for the omelettes, but I have to get going,” and then he’s out the door without another word. Tony shovels the last of his own omelette into his mouth to conceal the shit-eating grin that, from the look Natasha’s wearing right now, he must have on his face.

He’s _gosh-darn_ priceless, Cap is.

 

 

 

It takes several weeks of wheedling and begging, but Barnes (with the addition of Steve) finally gives in and lets Tony (with the addition of Bruce) have a look at his arm. Steve hovers anxiously around, getting in the way, while Bruce peers at blood samples under the microscope lenses and Tony examines the metal arm of the guy that Steve (probably) wants to marry. Life is good.

The arm is definitely bionic, with cool interlocking plates which react and connect directly to the surviving (albeit damaged) nerves and muscles in Barnes’s shoulder. It’s a little heavier than a normal arm, but that’s because it’s metal—no hidden bombs or anything cool like that. “I could add a flamethrower _so easily,_ ” Tony pleads, but Steve folds his arms and refuses. Barnes doesn’t say anything but, hey, that’s nothing new.

“You’ve definitely got a form of the serum,” Bruce says from his reclusive position at the microscope, “not the one Steve has, but close. I’ve worked with it for most of my life; I would recognise it. Your cells have the same cycles of regeneration that his do, but they don’t exactly—here, Tony, come and look at this.”

Tony leaves Steve’s (possible) future husband and stares into the microscope lens, but all he sees are red and white blurs, with a few splashes of black on the edges. “It’s absolutely . . . what am I supposed to be looking at again?”

“The mitochondria aren’t properly providing the cells with,” Bruce tries to explain, but Tony’s distracted by Barnes, and also by Steve, and more importantly by the looks they’re giving each other. If Pepper ever gave _him_ that look, Tony would probably fuck her in the lab, no questions asked. This thought distracts him further. “Sorry, you were saying?”

Bruce looks adequately chagrined. “Essentially,” he says, “the cells have mutated into pseudo-stem cells, with the ability to reform and to regrow. The problem with these is that their mitochondria don’t appear to be working. At least not properly.”

“And that’s bad?” asks Tony distractedly. Steve and Barnes and now talking in low voices, and Steve has both of his hands on Barnes’s shoulders. Tony recognises that same shit-eating grin from before making another appearance on his face.

“I don’t know,” Bruce admits, also glancing over at Barnes, although obviously not focusing on the same things, “I haven’t really seen this before. My guess is that it’s a side effect of the poorer-quality serum—I didn’t see this sort of thing in Steve at all.”

“Right,” Tony says succinctly, walking back over to Barnes. Steve jumps back, and Tony mentally milks that grin for all it’s worth. He puts his safety goggles back on (because Pepper would be _extremely_ displeased otherwise) and claps his hands. “Right, let’s have another look at the Terminator.”

Barnes scowls (which, really, is nothing new) but moves over slightly so that Tony can better see his arm. It really is impressive, Tony has to admit. He has Jarvis take a virtual blueprint and pulls apart the outer layer so that he can see the inner parts better. The metal links and plates move and fit together smoothly. Tony shoots Steve a quick look over his shoulder. “You’re _sure_ no flamethrowers? It would be absolutely killer.”

“No flamethrowers,” Steve says firmly, because he is no fun.

Bruce has gone back to his (or rather Barnes’s) mitochondria during this little episode, but he calls from across the room, “The weight will probably affect his balance, if you want to look into that at all.”

Now that he’s mentioned it, Tony feels stupid to have overlooked something so obvious. Barnes has adjusted to counter the effects of having a metal arm, naturally, but Tony can tell his balance _is_ slightly off—the mechanic’s eye. “Yeah, he’s right,” Tony says, off-hand. He flips the holographic blueprints and tosses them aside for later. “The weight is likely to put a strain on his back and neck muscles; I’m no doctor,” (Bruce scoffs from his microscope) “but I would suggest massage—I have to say, it can work wonders,” Tony adds, thinking of Pepper again.

Steve opens his mouth, looking like he wants to say something else that’s stubborn and unyielding, but he closes it again without saying a single word and looks mutinously at the floor.

“Come on, Capsicle, this is your chance to get all handsy,” Tony coaxes; Bruce sighs from his microscope. “I don’t know for certain but I’m pretty sure it’s a real prerequisite to getting—oh, don’t give me that look! What’s a little teasing between friends?”

To his credit, Steve doesn’t turn red this time. “If you’re done looking at Bucky’s arm then we’re going to leave,” he says shortly, putting his hand on the small of Barnes’s back to guide him towards the door, “thanks for _all_ the help.”

“Wow,” Tony says aloud as the door shuts behind them with an impressive thud, “New Yorkers can be so incredibly sarcastic sometimes.”

“You deserved it,” Bruce mumbles from his residing position at the microscope, and Tony, well, Tony can’t honestly disagree with him.

 

 

 

Tony realises with a rather unpleasant jolt a few days later that he’s become way too invested in the whole mess that happens to be the relationship between Steve and Barnes. _Don’t screw it up,_ he silently whispers, but whether he’s saying it to them or to himself he has no idea. _Don’t make a mistake._

Steve, unfortunately, doesn’t want to talk about it, and Barnes doesn’t talk in general. Tony decides he’ll have to wait a while before he starts planning an Avengers wedding. That doesn’t mean he wastes his opportunities to pester Steve, although to be fair he mostly brings up the whole flamethrower idea more than anything else. It’s cool.

“I’m not going to let you put a flamethrower in my best friend’s arm,” Steve says flatly. “It’s Friday night, which is movie night for us, and we have over seventy years’ worth of films and television to catch up on. Do you really want to stop that to bother us about flamethrowers?”

“I see what you’re doing there,” Tony says, raising his eyebrows and pointing at Steve threateningly, “you’re trying to appeal to my media-appreciating side, and it’s—well, okay, it’s working,” he admits. “No flamethrowers. For now.”

So the Tower’s resident super-soldiers curl up on the couch and watch movies, while Natasha and Clint and Bruce and Tony sit at the table and play Monopoly. It’s become a sort of a tradition now, even though it generally leads to nothing but arguing; it’s nice, sometimes, just to hang out and play a stupid board game.

“That’s my property,” Clint says quickly to Natasha, as soon as she moves her piece, “you owe me three hundred, Nat.”

Natasha glares at him and hands over three of the paper bills. Clint is by far the best at Monopoly; Natasha would be better if she bought more spaces; Bruce is terrible but doesn’t mind. Tony, for his part, is in the midst of a long-standing rivalry with Clint for which he can foresee no quick end. “You have to go to jail, Barton.”

“Aw, _no,_ ” Clint says with an exaggerated sigh, but he obligingly moves his tiny metal dog across the board and into jail. “Bruce,” he says, shooting Natasha a wry and grumpy look, “it’s your turn.”

Tony glances over at Steve and Barnes while he’s waiting for his turn to come around. Steve has his head on Barnes’s (human) shoulder, and they seem to be more _cuddling_ than watching. Tony feels elation seeping through him. God, they’re so oblivious, it’s ridiculous.

Clint and Natasha are arguing over whether Clint was supposed to move three spaces (putting him on his own property) or four spaces (putting him on Natasha’s property). Eventually Bruce steps in and suggests Clint roll the dice again; he ends up with a six, putting him on unclaimed property, which he promptly buys with the money he wrested from Natasha.

“Spying on them, hm?” says Natasha slyly, probably because she’s losing the game and is feeling vindictive; Tony jumps guiltily and turns back around. “I have to admit, they’re pretty cute together.”

“Poor guy,” Clint adds sympathetically, nodding towards Barnes and sneaking some of Natasha’s money and surreptitiously sliding his newly-accrued cash underneath the board, “he doesn’t even know that Steve is in love with him.”

“I don’t even think _Steve_ knows that Steve is in love with him,” Natasha says coolly, smacking Clint’s hand away when he tries to reach for the remaining few pieces of her Monopoly money. Clint laughs.

“We could probably do something about that.”

Bruce looks up, clearly prepared to play the role of the responsible parent, because no one else will. “We _should_ probably leave them alone and not pressure them into doing anything they don’t want to do.”

“All I want them to do,” Tony says slowly and deliberately, feeling the now-familiar shit-eating grin creeping back into place, “is each other.”

Clint thumps his hand on the table in appreciation, knocking over the tiny metal pieces. Natasha sucks in her breath sharply, and Bruce only sighs. Tony continues to watch Steve and Barnes while the rest of them figure out how to reset the game.

 _Those idiots are squandering their lives and possibilities right in front of me,_ Tony thinks grumpily, then gives himself a vigorous mental shake. _God, I must be getting old; I’m starting to wax bitterness and regret._

 _You’re not that old,_ Tony chides himself, listening to Clint and Natasha squabbling over which piece is going to be whose. _Give it a rest, pal. There’s still decades left before you’re as old as Frozone and Edward Metalarm over there._

 _Yeah, but, they don’t look it,_ his subconscious reminds him stubbornly. _Over ninety years old and they don’t have a single wrinkle or grey hair, not in the least. Whereas you, my friend, have—_

 _Yeah, but, shut up,_ Tony thinks petulantly. _Look, I don’t need a de-sensitive reminder of all this shit from the annoying asshole side of my brain._

Clint is still attempting to steal Natasha’s money, which Tony thinks is a supremely bad idea, but hey, Natasha isn’t _his_ fuckbuddy/girlfriend/potential wife. He has Pepper to fill that vacancy, and that’s really enough for him. While Clint and Natasha argue and Bruce attempts to placate them both, Tony goes back to watching Steve and Barnes. He’s starting to get a little bothered by their oblivious natures.

 

 

 

Maybe it’s just his hyper-sensitive awareness in the wake of Monopoly/movie night, but to Tony it seems as if Steve and Barnes are always together. When he wanders downstairs, they’re eating breakfast at the table. When he tries to find Natasha, she’s in the training room with the both of them. When he takes a cursory walk by the offices, they’re looking out a window and talking about the skyline or something like that. It’s ridiculously irritating, and the fact that they’re both so naïve does nothing to help his mood.

Steve keeps asking questions about the 21st century. “How many presidents have there been now?” he asks, and “When was the Vietnam war?” and “What happened to Japan?” and so on, ad infinitum. It’s mildly annoying, but not that bad, because there are always the amusing questions, such as “What are turkey dogs?” and “Do people still wear garters?” Tony does his best not to laugh at these questions for a while, then gives up completely. It’s _funny._ So sue him.

And of course there are the wedding questions. “How many people usually come to a wedding?” asks Steve out of nowhere during lunch, on one of the few occasions where he and Barnes aren’t practising to become conjoined twins.

“God, I don’t know. Eat your sandwich,” Tony replies. “A lot? You’ll invite all your family, normally—I know you don’t really have any, though—and friends and stuff. I guess in your case it would be just the team. And Fury, maybe. That’d be a laugh.”

“You keep talking as if _I’m_ the one who’s getting married,” Steve says, stubbornly not eating his sandwich. “Maybe I’m not the one who’s getting married. Maybe someone else is getting married.”

“Could you stop saying ‘getting married’? Thanks much,” Tony says, rolling his eyes, because who the hell asks questions about weddings if they’re not planning one. “I haven’t really been to a wedding in a while, you know. I’m not really the best person to answer these questions.”

Steve disregards both Tony’s statements and the sandwich in favour of turning to Natasha. “Do you know how many people there are? I mean—how many do you have to invite?”

Natasha shrugs and Tony interjects, “It sure sounds a lot like you’re planning to get married. I’m just saying.”

“I’m not getting married,” Steve says bluntly, “I don’t really have anyone _to_ marry . . .”

Tony spends about two seconds telling himself that rolling his eyes would be mean before he gives in and rolls his eyes. “I have absolutely _no clue._ Not a _single idea._ ”

“You’re making fun of me,” Steve complains, and wow, he’s not oblivious _at all,_ not in the least, “why are you making fun of me?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Natasha says swiftly, sending Tony a look of threatening spy-ness, “he does that a lot. Do you have any other questions?”

But Steve shakes his head and gets up, pushing his uneaten sandwich away from him. “I think I’m gonna go and find Bucky, but thanks.” And then he’s gone, and Tony turns to give Natasha a bug-eyed glare, because _is she not seeing this, please say she’s seeing this._ Natasha sighs and reaches for Steve’s sandwich with an air of resignation.

 

 

 

Steve and Barnes turn up again after lunch, when they wander into the workroom where Tony’s busy messing around with vague ideas for a new suit—he _really_ wants to add in a flamethrower now—and fixing his old ones. Tony mostly ignores them and continues working on welding gold to iron, because he has to put at least some iron in his suit—he _is_ Iron Man, after all.

Steve examines a holographic blueprint with mild curiosity; he’s seen them before. Barnes raises his eyebrows and waves his hand through it, sceptical. Tony finally stops welding and pushes open his visor. “Yes, hello. Did you figure out who to invite to your wedding yet?”

“I’m _not getting married,_ ” Steve protests, going red again, and Barnes actually snickers at this.

“You should invite Peggy; she would want to be there,” Barnes says, and Tony ponders briefly before remembering, _oh, right,_ Peggy must have known Barnes back in World War II. “And Natasha, obviously, and Sam . . .”

Steve swats halfheartedly at Barnes, trying to get him to shut up. “What’s _wrong_ with everyone?” he demands, looking a cross between furious and confused. “I keep saying that I’m _not_ getting married, but no one seems to believe me—”

Barnes grins and blocks when Steve tries to hit him. “Who’s the lucky girl, Stevie?”

“Who says it’s a girl?” Steve rolls his eyes, and Tony wonders briefly if punching the air and whooping would be a bit too much. “I don’t get it—did someone say I was getting married or something?”

“You’re the one who brought it up, Cap,” Tony reminds him gleefully, sweeping away the blueprints and setting down the now-welded-together metal pieces. “If I recall correctly, you asked, ‘Is there anything different about marriage now?’ and I responded—”

“I remember what you said,” Steve interrupts him, avoiding looking at either of them, and Tony doesn’t know if he’s been this happy in a long time. “Why don’t _you_ get married or something?”

Tony snorts and takes off his welding helmet, turning around to set it on a table already overcrowded with all manners of projects and ideas discarded in the middle of making. “Because I’m a generally unpleasant anti-social insufferable playboy who detests the idea of attachment in general.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Steve mutters, and Tony throws and extra piece of metal at him. Of course Steve, with his irritatingly accurate super-soldier reflexes, catches it and presents it extravagantly to Barnes with a cocky grin on his face that Tony recognises as his own.

 _Damn them both,_ Tony thinks petulantly, trying to clear a space big enough to start another project, hopefully with flamethrowers, _and the rest of the world, thrown in just for kicks._ “Get the hell out of my workshop,” he says aloud, and Steve grabs Barnes’s (metal) arm and they leave, laughing together.

“Jarvis,” Tony calls grumpily.

“Yes, sir?”

“Be glad you’re not a person,” Tony advises him as he pulls his welding helmet back on and retrieves his latest project upon which he’s been working—some new flight stabilisers; he could use them, “people suck.”

 

 

 

“How do you ask someone to marry you?” is Steve’s next question, this time while they’re all lounging around on the rug in front of Tony’s favourite television, playing Monopoly again, as per tradition on Friday nights.

“Generally,” Tony quips patiently, “say something along the lines of ‘Will you marry me?’ and they either say yes or it’s a one-night stand, and I’m sorry to say,” _but is he really,_ “that I only have experience with the latter.”

Natasha and Barnes exchange a covert glance, and Natasha mutters something under her breath in rapid-fire Russian that Tony could ask Jarvis to translate, but that he really doesn’t want to know.

“I mean,” Steve amends, moving the tiny car onto one of Clint’s properties; Clint whoops and holds out his hand expectantly with a huge grin on his face, “ _how_ do you ask someone to marry you? Do you still need a ring?”

Bruce glances up; he’s been playing the role of the banker and has been fielding Clint’s repeated attempts to sneak more money from the reserves. “I believe it’s the same—get a ring and do that whole go-down-on-one-knee thing and ask them to marry you. But I would know for certain. It’s been a while since I proposed to anyone,” Bruce says wryly, and it takes Tony a moment to realise he’s joking, he’s actually _joking._

“But you don’t have to do it that way,” Natasha says gently, picking up another card with deft fingers. “You can defy gender and social norms if you want to do that, no problem. For example,” and she turns to Clint, “want to get married?”

Without taking his eyes from the board, Clint shrugs. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “Why not.”

“All right, then.” Natasha turns mildly back to Monopoly, but Tony points at them both furiously. “You just—did you just—that’s _not_ how you do it,” Tony splutters, waving his hands around accusingly and accidentally releasing his fistful of paper money. “No! I have to be the presiding annoying parent; we have to do a bachelor party for Clint; Pepper has to moan over a wedding dress—strippers! You’re ruining _the whole thing!_ ”

Bruce is laughing, Steve and Barnes look confused, and Tony’s nursing the idea that he’s going to have an aneurysm. Natasha appears nonplussed, and Clint is taking the opportunity at hand to take the remaining pieces of the Monopoly money he hasn’t already stolen from Bruce. “ _Jarvis,_ ” Tony howls, “J, did you _hear_ them?”

Jarvis’s clear, crisp voice comes from a hidden speaker high in the ceiling. If robots could be programmed to have dry wit, Jarvis would have plenty. Tony’s grateful he never installed _that_ feature. “I believe Ms Romanoff just asked Mr Barton if he would like to get married. Is that not what happened?”

 _Damn sarcastic robot butlers,_ Tony thinks pettishly, _and Clint and Natasha too._ “That’s exactly what happened! Are you shitting me right now? Please tell me you’re shitting me right now.”

Clint, having successfully taken every piece of the Monopoly money, sits back and grins widely. “Nah, I guess. I mean, we’ve already been married three different times under different names, so it’s kind of a joke now.”

“Some joke,” Bruce mutters under his breath, but Tony’s a little more interested in the _three different times_ part of Clint’s little explanation.

“You’ve been married _three_ times and never bothered to tell me _once,_ ” Tony wails again, “not _one word_ about this, and to think here I was planning a big Avengers wedding, and bothering _Steve_ when I should have been bothering _you_ —”

“Oh, you bothered us,” Clint says quickly. “Many times.”

“You never _told_ me,” Tony exclaims. He’s still hung up on that part. They’ve been living in his Tower for months, fought with him against dozens of opponents, shared all sorts of experiences, and never once bothered to tell him they were married? What has common courtesy and chivalry come to these days?

Natasha grins her evil-spy grin. “What, you never thought to ask if Natalie Rushman was married? I was. My husband was in New Mexico at the time, however, on business duty. Coulson was there too.”

“New Mexico—but—Coulson said— _Thor,_ ” Tony says in anguish. “ _Barton was investigating Thor while you were supposedly working for me._ ”

“Nearly put one through his skull too,” Clint says in reminiscence, imitating the path of on arrow’s flight through the air, culminating in an imaginary target. “Sure glad now I didn’t do that then, huh.”

Bruce is still laughing, and Steve and Barnes still look confused, but right now Tony couldn’t—well, he probably _could_ care less, but that ruins the point. “I’m going to have a _very_ pointed conversation with the both of you later. Rogers, in retrospect—hah, that sounds like a headline, ‘Rogers: In Retrospect’—why all the marriage questions?”

Steve shrugs. He and Barnes have been playing as a team, mostly because there weren’t enough pieces (Clint lost the shoe a while ago), and Barnes is holding their piece—the metal hat—in his right hand and tapping it against his left. “I’m _curious,_ ” Steve says defensively, although a faint blush colours his cheeks. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“Still as damn curious as you used to be,” Barnes says under his breath, and then they’re both smiling at each other with those melting smiles that make Tony want to say, _get a room, already._ “That much hasn’t changed, huh?”

“Not really,” Steve says, sounding slightly breathless, and Tony slaps both of his palms down on the table as he stands up. _This is too much,_ he thinks, _it’s the last straw; one couple is bad enough but I don’t think I’ll be able to handle double couples._ Tony glances back over his shoulder as he leaves; Clint’s holding up the remainder of Tony’s Monopoly cash with a shit-eating grin. _There seems to be an epidemic of expressions like that,_ Tony muses, and stomps off to go find Pepper.

 

 

 

Steve has this uncanny ability to show up out of nowhere, even when Tony thinks he knows where the guy is, all of a sudden. It’s annoying. Kind of like Natasha, only Steve shouldn’t be able to do that. _He_ isn’t an assassin, or spy, or whatever else Natasha is. Steve also isn’t married to Clint, but well, that’s another story.

“I’m gonna have to put a goddamn bell around your neck,” Tony grumbles, after Steve wanders up behind him and mentions that it’s raining, so Tony’s idea of installing a satellite monitor probably won’t work well. “Maybe programme it to play the national anthem or something.”

“I don’t even like the national anthem,” Steve points out, leaning against the wall with an impressive slouch. Tony kind of always thought he would stand up straight, all prim and proper, but it isn’t like that at all. “It’s kind of . . . tacky.”

“Oh God, don’t say that ever again,” Tony moans, pretending to clutch at his heart/arc reactor. “If the media gets wind of the fact that Captain America doesn’t like the national anthem . . . God save us all. But not Thor; he would break something.”

Steve frowns, the way he does when something doesn’t quite make sense, but he doesn’t want to ask about it. “I actually had a question—don’t look at me like that, it isn’t about marriage or anything—you remember when you looked at Bucky’s arm?”

“How could I forget,” Tony grunts, shoving the now-useless satellite monitor away from him. “Yeah, why?”

Steve fidgets awkwardly. “He, um. Well, you know more about this stuff than I do, so . . .” He hesitates, and Tony wants to hit him over the head with the satellite monitor. Wait until the media hears that he brained Captain America, _that’ll_ be one for the books. “It’s been sparking, and I don’t know if that’s just because it hasn’t been taken care of properly, or something else, but . . . I wanted to ask you to look at it before anything else happened.”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “Last time I had to beg you two to get me to look at that thing, now _you’re_ begging _me,_ huh. Yeah, sure. Bring him in. Just sparking, right? No, like, exposed wires or anything? I mean, it looked fine before.”

“Um, yeah.” Steve shrugs one shoulder halfheartedly. “And, one more thing . . . could you, I don’t know, refrain from the wedding jokes when he’s around? I don’t want . . .” He stops there, looking even more uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry, Cap,” Tony says, turning back to the monitor, “I won’t embarrass you in front of your boyfriend.”

“That’s exactly what I _don’t_ want you to say,” Steve complains, and Tony can’t help it, he starts laughing. Forget tying a bell around Steve’s neck—wedding bells would be a lot more appropriate.

(Barnes’s robot arm turns out to be fine, for the most part, only one wire that was causing it to short-circuit—nothing Tony can’t fix easily. Steve spends the entire time hovering around nervously, and it takes all of Tony’s self-control not to say anything. And some people say chivalry is dead. In Tony’s opinion, it’s about as dead as Nick Fury—gone until you least expect it. But that might just be him talking shit again.)

 

 

 

Pepper really is a treasure—Tony never knows how to say it. The truth of the matter is that without her he would be, well, a complete dick. Pepper is the yang to his yin, the light to his dark, the up to his down, the reasoning to his recklessness. The real problem is that Tony doesn’t know the best way to show her how much he appreciates her. Blame it on Howard’s never being around, blame it on Maria’s never paying any mind, blame it on Jarvis and Peggy and—but he’s been working on this, and it’s Tony’s fault, no one else’s, just his.

Sunday is the one day during which Pepper allows herself to relax and to take some time off. “Being the CEO of your company is no easy task,” she tries to protest, “I have a business to run, Tony,” but Sundays are exceptions. Occasionally she even joins them for Friday movie night. But Sundays are _their_ days, for them and only them.

This Sunday Tony enlists the help of Jarvis and makes Pepper breakfast in bed—toast and eggs the way she likes it, cereal which may or may not be in the shape of tiny Iron Man helmets, and some of that weird green herbal smoothie she insists they both drink. Pepper is still asleep, and Tony sits on the edge of the bed, watching how her hair splays across the pillows and her lashes flutter against her cheeks and her mouth is slightly open while she breathes.

When Pepper opens her eyes, she’s a combination of confused and surprised, but in a good way. “Tony,” Pepper says, marvelling, “you did all this?”

“Well, Jarvis helped a bit,” Tony admits, slightly uncomfortable, “but yeah. Do you not like the toast? I think it got burned a little which is why I got the cereal, but I had Bruce buy it a while ago and for some reason he thought it would be funny to get Iron Man cereal—”

Pepper laughs, a clear, crystal sound. “ _Tony,_ ” she says again, “don’t worry, it’s lovely. I don’t know how to thank you for all this.”

“Well,” Tony admits, “I have some ideas,” because hey, he’s Tony Stark, he _always_ has ideas, “but I think breakfast would have to wait,” and Pepper smiles and reaches out for him, and damned if he doesn’t go right into her arms.

 

 

 

Later when they’re lying in bed and Pepper’s still laughing about the cereal, Tony lets his mind wander. He thinks about the cereal, and how Bruce gave it to him, and how Bruce was saying something about stem cells, and flamethrowers, and Steve, who’s suddenly obsessed with marriage. “Cap’s getting married,” Tony remarks absently.

Pepper makes a soft sound of surprise and pushes herself up onto her elbows. “Steve? Steve’s getting married?”

“Apparently,” Tony says, and that reminds him of Natasha and Clint, who got married _three_ times without his knowledge, and then he can’t think of anything except for that, because they got married _three times without his knowledge._

Pepper purses her lips thoughtfully. “Who’s he going to marry?”

“Hell if I know, probably his Soviet super-soldier,” Tony says distractedly. “Hey, did you know Clint and Natasha got married three times? Well, she proposed the day before yesterday over a game of Monopoly, so make that four. It’s ridiculous.”

“Natasha told me a while ago,” Pepper admits gently. “She wanted to know if there was a limit to the number of times you could be married to the same person. I told her no.”

And now Tony’s annoyed again, because even Pepper knew, and he didn’t, and apparently Natasha told Pepper about marrying Clint (three times!) but apparently Natasha didn’t bother to tell _him._ “That’s just great,” Tony grumbles. “Absolutely wonderful.”

Pep laughs and sighs at the same time, which is a talent of hers. “Tony,” she says in her voice that means you’re-being-silly-again, “might there have been a reason that they didn’t tell you?”

“I didn’t get to have a bachelor party with Clint,” Tony complains. “Cheap beer and expensive champagne. Talking about women and life and politics. And _no strippers._ No speech at the wedding! I had a great speech. I even came up with puns for the occasion. Black Widow puns. Archery puns. I _worked_ for those puns, Pep. You know? I’m missing out.”

“Maybe they didn’t want to have all that,” Pepper suggests. “Natasha said it was mostly through SHIELD, and because of their missions, not their own ideas. Maybe they wanted it to be a private affair.”

“Maybe,” Tony relents grudgingly. “But they could at least do something now.”

Pepper nestles into his neck, her breathing warm against his skin. “Why did you says Steve was going to get married?” she asks, effectively changing the subject. “He hasn’t mentioned anything of the sort before.”

“Oh, just—he’s been asking a lot of questions lately,” Tony says into her hair, “mostly about marriage—who the hell asks questions about marriage if they’re not planning to get married?”

“You do realise that’s a question about marriage?” Pepper laughs and rests her hand on his chest. “I never pegged Steve as the marrying type, that’s all. I suppose he _could_ get married if he wanted to, but I never pictured him . . .”

Tony frowns at that; something about her wording is off. “You know something, don’t you,” he says accusingly. Pepper shakes her head innocently, but her eyes dance with mischief.

“No I don’t.”

“You know something about Cap,” Tony reiterates. “If you have dirt on the patriotic popsicle you owe it to our fine country to tell me every lascivious detail. Is this about Barnes? Because I feel like this is about Barnes. Goddammit, everything is these days.”

“I don’t know anything,” Pepper admits reluctantly. “Have you actually asked Steve about any of this? Because I think the pattern in cases such as this one has continued to be where you make assumptions and they either end up to be ridiculously incorrect or so wildly fantastical that they turn out to be true.”

Tony wants to argue but, hey, it’s true. “Of course I talked to Steve,” he says, slightly insulted. “He doesn’t want to talk about that part of things. Asking questions about marriage is fine, but if I say one word about _him_ getting married, then all of a sudden he has to go and find Barnes or some other extremely crucial thing,” although to be fair Tony can’t think of any other examples.

Pepper sighs. “I think I’m going to talk to Steve,” she says, and reaches for the Iron Man cereal.

 

 

 

Thor shows up just in time for the next Friday night movie marathon, so Tony declares the entire floor to be Avengers-only and bans the rest of them from entering. Because God knows that even ‘earth’s mightiest heroes’ need some rest and relaxation time. So sue him. Tony has enough money to win anyway.

Clint’s the best with pizza, weirdly enough, so around six he and Natasha show up with boxes of the stuff, coupled with drinks and chips and other necessary items. “Welcome to the Avengers-only floor,” Tony says as he ushers them in, and they both roll their eyes in unison.

“What about Bucky?” asks Steve, his expression hovering at a cross between pitiful-puppy-left-in-the-rain and Imma-fight-you-so-shut-up. “He should get to stay too. At least, if Bucky isn’t going to stay, then I’m not going to stay either.”

Of _course_ not; Tony doesn’t know why he could ever expect anything other than that. “Fine, Assassin-Luke-Skywalker can stay too.” When met with blank faces, Tony exclaims, “Really, Rogers? Really? Jarvis, set up the queue—we’re watching _Star Wars_ first. He _has_ to stay to watch this, it’s a classic,” and so Barnes sits gingerly next to Steve on the smallest couch.

“Where’s Wilson?” asks Clint from his position lounging in one of the armchairs; Natasha is curled bonelessly around the arm of the chair like a cat. “I need the second half of my Bird Squad.”

“Is that a thing now?” asks Tony, settling between Bruce and Thor on the other, larger couch. “‘Where’s Wilson’? It’s like Where’s Waldo, only a little less dangerous. Well, the second half of you Bird Squad—who came up with that name anyway?—is in DC with Rhodey, so obviously not here.”

“You did,” Bruce says into the silence following Tony’s miniature monologue. “Came up with the name ‘Bird Squad,’ I mean.”

“Shall we commence watching?” inquires Thor from the other side of Tony. He has Mjolnir resting on his knees. His fingers are idly tracing the runes on the handle. “This petty squabbling will get us nowhere.”

Tony wants to mention that petty squabbling is part of the point of movie marathon night, but he doesn’t. “Yeah—J, start _Star Wars,_ ” he says, partly because he wants to start watching and partly because Thor brought more of that Asgardian drink that can get even Captain America shitfaced—an impressive feat. “You’re gonna like this one, Cap.”

 

 

 

“Darth Vader looks kinda like something Tony would come up with,” Steve announces in a loud whisper. Natasha smirks and drapes herself in a more fluid position around the arm of the chair. Clint pets her hair as if she really is a cat, and she hisses at him, her eyes full of mischief.

 

 

 

“I do not trust this Han Solo character,” Thor muses, toying with Mjolnir’s handle. “He appears to have a shadowy and uncertain past, and he shot the green lizard-man with no reason.”

“That’s an ongoing debate, bro,” Tony says.

 

 

 

“Leia is a fairly good shot,” Natasha pints out sometime later, flipping her legs around to sit in the chair properly, next to Clint. “But she needs to keep her shoulders relaxed and not lock her elbows or she’s going to sprain her muscles pretty soon.”

Clint sighs and puts his arm around her (not that he can do much else; the chair isn’t _that_ big). “Can you ever turn off the part of you that’s a hybrid of a superspy and assassin?” he asks, and Natasha shakes her head happily.

 

 

 

“I have seen this Force before,” Thor adds in a spectacularly bad whisper. “My mother was particularly adept at using it. It is one of the gifts of the Æsir. We too can move certain objects around and control them, although we do not use it to harm,” he adds as Darth Vader crushes an unlucky pilot’s throat without ever touching him.

“Yeah, I think I’ve seen some of that, with your hammer thingys,” Tony replies, imitating holding out his hand and calling Mjolnir to come to him. “How does that work? Is it a god thing? I bet it’s a god thing.”

Bruce perks up then. “It could be a combination of smaller particles which are attracted to each other by force,” Bruce says, lapsing into science mode, “and telekinetic thought waves which connect the object to the telegrapher and, so to say, listen to him or her.”

“Right,” Tony says, warming up to the idea, “and the actual Force would be a projection of those particles and energy in a sort of avatar-y form—invisible, naturally, because particles _are_ —that can manipulate objects from a distance.”

“Two atoms can never come into complete contact with each other,” Bruce adds, getting more energetic with each word spoken, “so all ‘touching’ we experience, well, isn’t. And so, technically, it could be possible to extend that range and voilà, you have your Force.”

“Guys, shut up,” Clint interrupts. “You’re missing all the good parts.”

 

 

 

“I guess we have to watch the other three,” Tony says reluctantly, “for reference purposes, and because _some people_ here,” and he looks accusingly at Steve and Barnes, “haven’t seen them,” so Jarvis starts the next few.

“If I had been there,” Thor announces majestically after the first few scenes, “I would leave no prisoner nor slave unfreed. It is pure foolishness that these men left this child’s mother behind.”

“You and the rest of the world, buddy,” Tony says.

 

 

 

Steve and Steve’s (potential) future husband spend most of an hour whispering back and forth, practically dripping nostalgia, until Tony can’t take it any more and asks them what the hell they need to keep secret, are they discussing plans for Steve’s wedding or what, and if so can it not be in the midst of a movie marathon. They both look up guiltily and Barnes says, “Not about Steve, the—” He looks over at Steve, who says something else quietly. “Darth Maul. Looks like the Red Skull.”

“Only he has,” Steve imitates having black spikes on his face, “but they both have, you know . . .” His voice trails off into nothing.

“Skulls?” suggests Tony viciously, but to be fair, Darth Maul _does_ kind of bear a faint resemblance to the Red Skull. Tony’s never actually seen Red Skull alias Johann Schmidt before, at least not in person, but he’s heard stories about him during the few rare times when Howard remembered that he had a life outside of Stark Industries.

Steve cuts him a look like he thinks Tony’s mocking him, but doesn’t think it would be worth it to bring it up. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I’m not getting married.”

“Whatever you say, Cap,” Tony says.

 

 

 

Halfway through the sixth-slash-third movie, Natasha yawns and flops backwards off the chair onto the floor. “Come lie down with me,” she coaxes, and Clint rolls his eyes but climbs to the floor and lies down next to her.

Tony doesn’t take his eyes off the screen, where rebels are dying in heroic ways, et cetera. “I,” he says. “I am not pleased with you two right now.”

Natasha grins that evil grin again. “What, because I asked him to marry me? Aw, you’re not still upset about that, are you? You know it was just a joke, Stark. If anyone’s getting married, it’s Steve.”

“I am not getting married,” Steve protests. “This is getting a bit annoying now, you know.”

“You’re confusing him,” Barnes says. “I should warn you, he gets very grumpy when he’s confused.”

Steve shoves him, and they both nearly fall off their couch. Bruce sighs heavily and mumbles, just loudly enough for Tony to hear, “I’m starting to see your point, as much as I want not to.”

Tony reaches out to thump his arm against the arm of the couch, realises he’s in the middle, and hits Mjolnir instead. Thor glowers. “Told ya, buddy. Hey, Robocop,” he says, raising his voice slightly, “what about you?”

Barnes looks even more confused. “What about me?”

“Are _you_ going to get—stop it, Bruce—married or something? Steve could be doing one of those ‘asking for a friend’ things, and considering Sam’s not here and Natasha,” Tony glares at her, still on the floor with Clint, “is already married, it would have to be him. So what say you, huh? Are you planning a wedding?”

“No,” Barnes says, frowning. “Why would I be—never mind.”

Tony hits Mjolnir again; Thor sighs and sets his hammer on the floor next to Clint’s head; Clint tries to shove it away and fails. “You idiot! You really don’t—no, of course you don’t—oh my _God._ ”

“Don’t call him an idiot,” Steve says warningly.

Tony ignores him; the screen is still showing the movie, although no one’s paying attention any more. “I said—Bruce, I mean it—why wouldn’t you get married? I hear there are some nice girls in _America,_ ” Tony says, emphasising the last word. “Or, you know, others.”

Steve puts his arm protectively around Barnes and scowls at Tony. “Tony, stop it. You’re confusing my b—” He stops, bites his lips, blinks nervously. “Bucky. Yeah. My Bucky.”

Barnes rolls his eyes; Tony narrows his eyes sceptically. “You were going to say something else, weren’t you,” he demands. “What were you going to say, Rogers?”

“Oh, leave him alone,” Natasha pipes up from the floor; she has her head on Clint’s chest and they’re holding hands. “You’ve spent enough time grilling the poor guy for information, you can stop now.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Steve mutters under his breath, “Natasha.”

Tony folds his arms and accidentally elbows Thor and Bruce; Thor sighs heavily and Bruce moves out of the way. “I’m not letting this one go,” he says stubbornly. “Are you two . . . no. Please tell me I’m dreaming. Someone wake me up. Holy _shitstickers,_ Rogers, I have to say I never imagined that you—no, _no,_ this can’t be happening. Those two,” and he waves his hands at Clint and Natasha, “are bad enough, but . . . _no._ ”

Steve is blushing again, but starts laughing anyway, and Barnes joins in. “You seriously thought that we were gonna get married? That’s a new one,” Barnes says, shoving Steve with his shoulder. “How would _that_ work out?”

“They’d have to change the vows,” Steve replies, shaking with suppressed laughter. “How does it go? ‘In sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live—to the end of the line,’ you know.”

Tony glares at them both. Trust them to turn it into a joke. “This day has not been going well as it is,” he says, thinking of Clint and Natasha, “so don’t try my patience. If you get married I am sure as hell changing the vows and _Jarvis gets to say them, understand?_ ”

“Right, right,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “I always wanted a robot butler to marry me to my best friend.”

And, well, maybe Tony feels a little bad about it. But only a little. Mostly he’s thrilled—he was right, he was right, he was _right._ “Well, yeah,” he says bluntly, trying to think of what to say—what can he say in a situation like this? After all he’s been through _this_ is what leaves him speechless—“I guess . . . yeah. Natasha! I still need you to get married to Barton officially.”

Natasha folds her arms from her position on the floor, slouching carelessly, because apparently she can slouch when she’s lying down—of course she can, she’s _Natasha._ “You don’t dictate my life, Stark.”

Steve and Barnes are still laughing and grinning at each other. Natasha smirks at them, her eyes slitted in approval. Tony considers telling them all to shut up, but it isn’t worth it; instead he glares at them. “I cannot believe that Captain Perfect and Robocop—no, this can’t be real. Someone slap me.”

Thor, misunderstanding, lifts his hand to do just that. Bruce grabs his arm quickly. “It’s a saying, Thor. Don’t really hit him.” Thor lowers his arm, an amused look on his face. _Right,_ Tony thinks. _Even the stupid deity laughs at me._

“Your face,” Clint says with relish, “when you figured it out . . . damn, my kingdom for a camera, huh?”

Tony spins to face him, as much as he can when Clint’s still on the floor, shaking with suppressed laughter. “Did _you_ know too? You and the missus, were you in on the joke the whole time?”

“No,” Natasha says. “I had an inkling,” because that’s exactly the kind of thing Natasha would say, whatever the hell an _inkling_ is.

“They’re not exactly hiding it,” Clint adds, then the two of them grin at each other like thy accomplished something, and Natasha leans forwards to kiss Clint on the cheek. _Stupid assassins._

“Fine,” Tony says, actually quivering with rage, “ _fine!_   But, goddammit, this time I want a bachelor party. And Thor better be there with that booze, got it? I need to get stoned drunk then. Hell, I need that now.”

It could be worse, he relents, although he isn’t really sure how. Tony considers saying something else, but again it isn’t worth it; he spins around on his heel and goes to find Pepper again. Leave them to laugh about their stupid marriage problems. For once, he doesn’t want to hear it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr.](spacestationtrustfund.tumblr.com)


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